


Got Your Back

by LeftWingLibrarian



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bromance, Gen, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Kegsters, Platonic Cuddling, References to Past Drug Abuse, Someone calls Jack a junkie, Teammates to Friends, friendship fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 17:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19067497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeftWingLibrarian/pseuds/LeftWingLibrarian
Summary: Extrovert Shitty adopts cold hockey robot Jack Zimmermann.





	Got Your Back

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by the fantastic art of [Rub-a-dubb](https://rub-a-dubb.tumblr.com/image/185320539689). I just love Jack and Shitty's friendship, and they portrayed it so beautifully. 
> 
> Huge thanks to [TuppingLiberty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TuppingLiberty/pseuds/TuppingLiberty) for the beta!

“It’s over,” Jack thinks, letting the door shut behind him and leaning back, letting his head hit against it with a thunk. He gives himself a moment just to breathe before pulling himself together, toeing off his shoes and getting back to unpacking.

Overall not bad for a first team meeting, Jack thinks to himself as he pulls socks and underwear out of his duffle. He’d arrived early and found a seat off to the side a few rows back, and while guys had filed in around him, no one had acted like he was anything other than another member of the team. Either they don’t know who he is and his history, or they do and are under strict orders from Hall and Murray to leave him alone.

The meeting part had gone well, too. A lot of the same stuff he’s heard so many times in Juniors — don’t take meds from anyone but the trainers and medical staff, don’t party underage, or at least don’t get caught — with a few other odd NCAA-specific regulations thrown in. Jack has a hard time believing anyone would be crazy enough to take out a student loan in their own name and give one of the SMH guys the money, but then again, he muses, his family knows better than most the drama of fans and puck bunnies who will do anything to get close to their favorite player.

He’s so lost in thought that he must have missed the first knock on the door, doesn’t notice until it’s become an insistent pounding. Wondering who it could be, he abandons a stack of T-shirts on the bed and opens the dorm room door, where one of the guys from the team — Knight, he thinks was his name — is standing in a pair of cutoff shorts and a black tank that reads “Radical Feminist,” clearly about to knock again.

“Yo, Zimmermann, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jack says, rubbing his neck self consciously. He was really hoping to avoid having to talk about his dad with guys on the team.

“S’wawesome. B. Shitty Knight, right wing,” he says, reaching out to shake Jack’s hand while Jack ponders whether that was supposed to be a name or … something else. “Saw we were on the same floor, practically roomies, figured we should get to know one another. Team bonding and all that. I’m heading down to the dining hall, you wanna come?”

Jack thinks for a moment, then realizes he’s probably been silent for too long. He’d really rather not, but it seems like a bad idea to turn down a teammate without an excuse. His inner captain makes the decision for him, even though he’s no longer captain anymore …

“No pressure, m’dude. Totally get it if you need to stay and finish unpacking,” the guy says, and yeah, Jack WAS taking too long to answer.

“No, I mean, yeah, sounds good. Let me just put on my shoes.”

Jack spends the first few minutes of the walk trying to think of some talking points, but soon realizes he doesn’t need to be worried. Knight is — well, chatty is probably putting it mildly — and Jack soon just lets the conversation wash over him, providing a short one-word answer whenever it seems appropriate.

They get their food and sit down, Knight still gesturing wildly with his hands as he talks about his plans to major in gender studies and political science. Jack tries to make appropriate encouraging sounds around his chicken fingers.

“... anyway, the whole thing is kind of a giant ‘Fuck you’ to my dad and grandparents, but I am super passionate about it, so I figure it’s a win-win. Satisfy the family by going to law school, but then subvert expectations and do social justice work, you know? I’m rambling here, what about you?”

“Huh? Oh, uh … what about me?” This is the moment Jack dreads in meeting anyone new. The moment they want to ask all about his parents, his past, Kent … basically everything he doesn’t want to talk about.

“Your major. Have you decided yet?”

And that was not what Jack was expecting. Sure, people have asked about his major before, but it’s always been more for paperwork purposes than genuine interest, like the admissions counselor or athletics academic success coordinator. And his parents, who are of course supportive and interested, but they’re his parents, it’s their job.

“Oh. Yeah. History. Probably American.”

“Sick dude, that’s great. You gonna go the academic route or teach?” and could it possibly be true that Knight genuinely has no idea who Jack is? Or does he just truly not care?

“Well, I mean, I’m really hoping I can play hockey professionally?”

“Oh for sure man, I’m sure you’ll make it, I’ve seen your tape. I just mean like, after.”

“Um, well … I guess I hadn’t really thought past that point,” Jack says, realizing that it’s true. There’s always only ever been hockey and the NHL. “But I guess it could be cool to do research or teach after.”

“S’wawesome. So what’s your jam? Like if you could go back and witness anything, what would it be?”

“Well I don’t know that I’d actually want to witness it, but I’m really interested in World War II …”

And somehow Jack finds himself in a spirited discussion of gender roles on the home front that takes them all the way back to the dorm.

“Well, see you at practice dude. Hit me up if you want to read more about this, I have a couple of good articles. I read a sick one about victory gardens a while ago, I can find it for you.”

“Uh, sure. That would be great. Thanks, Knight.”

“Shitty.”

“Oh, sorry, I …”

“No, that’s my name. Shitty. Well, nickname.”

“Ah, gotcha. OK, well … see you at practice.”

_/ \\_ _/ \\_ _/ \\_

They fall into a routine after that. Shitty makes sure Jack doesn’t sit alone at team breakfasts, and then his Spanish class is in the humanities building, one floor up from Jack’s European History class, so they walk together on Mondays and Wednesdays. Shitty stops by often on his way to dinner, and they end up studying a few times in the library. And of course there is practice, and conditioning, and practice, as the first game begins to loom closer.

“... and I’ve been listening to this cool audiobook on my runs, Our Mothers’ War. Shitty recommended it, and it’s been fascinating,” Jack tells his parents in one of their Skype calls.

“That’s the fourth time I’ve heard you mention this Shitty person, sweetheart,” Alicia smiles. “Is he a new friend?”

Jack thinks for a moment. He’d come to Samwell with one goal — playing well enough to get picked up by an NHL team — and hadn’t really thought about things like a social life. But while he has a good relationship with all of his teammates, Shitty is definitely moving into a different category.

“Uh, yeah. He … he might be.” Jack tells her, trying not to let it break him when he sees her huge smile. She so clearly wants him to be happy.

“Are you two, uh, more than friends?” his dad asks awkwardly. Jack can tell he’s trying to be supportive, but it still makes him cringe.

“No. Definitely not. I don’t think he’s into guys, and even if he was … just, no.”

The look of disgust on Jack’s face makes Bob chuckle.

“Well, if you do meet someone, friend or something more, you know we support you and would be happy to meet them, right?”

“I know, Papa. Thanks.”

_/ \\_ _/ \\_ _/ \\_

Jack starts wondering if he was wrong about Shitty’s sexual preferences the moment he climbs into Jack’s bed.

The team had thrown its first kegster of the year, and Jack had reluctantly tagged along in the interest of being a good teammate. He was able to nurse one red Solo cup of beer all night and hang out in the corner on his phone for the most part, but Shitty wasn’t so lucky. Or was super lucky, depending on how you look at it, Jack supposes. Shitty’s recipe for something he referred to as “tub juice” seemed very popular with the upperclassmen. Unfortunately for Jack, Shitty seems to have had a bit too much of it.

“Come on Jack,” he drawls, crawling into the bed and holding the covers open. “Come spoon me. I need some bro snuggles.”

“I’m … Shits I’m not …”

“Bro, if you ‘no-homo’ me right now, so help me …”

“No, no. It’s not that. I just …”

“Jaaaack. I need snugs.”

Jack tries to push down the panic building inside him. There is a mostly naked man in his bed demanding to be spooned. On the one hand, Jack doesn’t want that getting around campus. On the other, Shitty doesn’t seem to be in a state where he should be left alone. Jack’s single dorm is certainly not the ideal place for two full-sized hockey players, but it seems better than having one of them sleep on the floor. They have practice Monday, they can’t have their backs hurting.

“OK, shove over,” he grumbles, scrambling under the covers. He’ll just lie next to Shitty, and that’s not too weird, right?

“OK, you can be the little spoon,” Shitty says, shifting over to wrap himself around Jack. Jack tries to move the arm flung across his chest and wiggle away, but Shitty just holds him tighter, which is really kind of amazing, because he’s full on snoring at this point.  
And it’s … nice. Jack is by no means touch starved — that doesn’t fly on a hockey team, where cellies and bro hugs and butt slaps are just a fact of life. And his parents have always been very loving, showing affection through hugs and kisses even as Jack has reached adulthood. But it’s been a long time since he’s had this — the casual, comfortable, sustained touch that isn’t leading to anything more. With Kent it was always leading to something more, and then after, well, Kent wasn’t much of a cuddler, preferring to roll over and go to sleep once the afterglow had worn off.

But this is just … comfy, is possibly the best way to describe it. Easy, affectionate, and uncomplicated. And uncomplicated is something Jack is realizing he needs more of in his life.

_/ \\_ _/ \\_ _/ \\_

He’s on a Skype call with his parents, making plans for them to attend the season opener, when Shitty starts banging on the door.

“Sorry Maman and Papa,” he says, turning away from the computer to yell at the door. “Shitty, go away.”

“NO CAN DO JACKABELLE. I NEED TO GET MY HANDS ON THAT GLORIOUS ASS AND DRAG IT DOWN TO THE DINING HALL. OPEN UP YOU HOCKEY-PLAYING ADONIS.”

Alicia and Bob are laughing, apparently finding this uproariously funny.

“Why don’t you let him in, sweetheart? You can call us back after your dinner.”

“No, Maman, we still need to figure out the plan for after the game,” Jack says, raising his voice just a bit to be heard over the pounding and demands for snuggles coming from the door. “Hang on, just a sec.”

Jack storms over and throws open the door, only to have Shitty nearly hit him in the face, stumbling into the room from the unexpected absence of the door.

“There he is, light of my life,” Shitty says, turning to throw his arms around Jack, ignoring the look of consternation on his face. “Brah, it’s 7:30, you need to eat. Let’s go.”

“Shits, I can’t right now. I’m on a call with my parents.”

Shitty turns, noticing the open laptop for the first time.

“Oh, hey Mr. and Mrs. Z! How goes it?” he says, waving wildly and walking over to the laptop.

And this … this is the moment, then, Jack thinks to himself. The moment this friendship collapses because, just like everyone else, Shitty is only interested in Jack for his famous name and famous parents.

He realizes he’s zoned out for a minute, leaving Shitty to chat with his parents. He storms over, ready to tell Shitty it’s time for him to leave, but he hesitates when he hears the conversation.

“Well I’m grateful to have found Jack. You guys raised a good one, Mr. and Mrs. Z. Anyway, nice to meet you!” he gives and enthusiastic wave before turning to Jack. “Sorry m’dude, didn’t realize you were on a call. You want to just swing by mine whenever you are ready?”

“Uh, sure,” Jack says, faltering. Shitty’s been gifted this golden window of opportunity to weasel his way into Bob and Alicia’s good graces and he’s just … leaving? That’s not how this normally plays out.

“K, don’t be too long though. You need to eat, or you’ll get hangry,” Shitty says, clapping him on the shoulder in farewell.

“Mon dieu, if that isn’t the truth,” comes the voice of Bob from the computer. “Good to meet you Shitty. Take care of our boy!”

“Will do Mr. Z! At least as much as he’ll let me,” Shitty hollers back before turning to Jack. “Shoot me a text or stop by when you are ready, I can go whenever.”

He leaves, and Jack wanders back over to the computer, befuddled at what just happened. Could it be it was just his anxiety talking, and Shitty actually has no ulterior motives. Jack takes a second to put his thoughts on trial like his therapist has coached him to do as he takes his seat again.

“Well he seems delightful,” Alicia is saying. “What a character. But he seems to really care about you, Jack.”

“Uh, yeah, he’s … he’s something else, that’s for sure,” Jack replies, still running through scenes of their relationship and evaluating them with the lense of trust his therapist has encouraged.

“I’m glad you’ve made a friend, mon fils,” Bob says with a smile.

“Yeah,” Jack says, a smile beginning to play on his lips. “I think maybe I have.”

_/ \\_ _/ \\_ _/ \\_

PB&J eaten. Two-touch played. Stick wrapped in the same way that led to Jack scoring his first hat trick in Bantam. The anthem is playing — though it’s not the one Jack is used to hearing on home ice — but that’s a variation he can deal with. It’s hockey. He knows how to do this. He’s just got to shut out everything else and just play the game. Hockey robot mode engaged.

It’s going well, Jack syncing well with his linemates and Samwell making some good plays. It’s got a different feel than Juniors, but is just as challenging in its own way, and Jack is able to make adjustments. Until he takes his first faceoff.

“Hey junkie, kind of you to take a break from rehab to join us,” Petrie jokes across the circle, loud enough that the ref probably hears, but pretends not to.

And it’s stupid. So, so stupid. Guys have always talked smack, and this is probably one of the tamer things Jack has actually seen directed his way. But for some reason, this one gets under his skin, and he loses the faceoff.

Luckily Johnson is on fire and is able to make the save, and Jack’s able to shake it off by the time he leaves the ice on the shift change. The worst part is that it happened right in front of the Samwell bench. But he gets a clap on the shoulder, a wry smile and a “strong work” from Hall, and butt slaps from several guys as he takes his seat, so it seems like they are letting it slide.

Shitty, on the other hand, is incensed.

“That bastard is neither a gentleman, nor a scholar,” he fumes as Jack sits down beside him heavily. The fourth line hasn’t racked up many minutes yet, so Shitty’s mostly been hollering supportive comments from the sidelines. The comment does its job though, and Jack cracks a smile.

“That, he is not,” he says, bumping Shitty with his shoulder. But then Berger goes to the box for Samwell, and Jack’s back out on the penalty kill.

Shitty finally takes the ice again late in the first period, and as Barnes is on the breakaway, he skates right up to Petrie and hip checks him into the glass. It’s a deliberate, uncalled-for hit, and Petrie already has his gloves off as he rises from the ice to begin pummeling Shitty, who does his best to get in a few hits.

Jack’s leapt up in his seat just like the rest of the team, but the refs have Shitty and Petrie pulled apart and sent off to their respective boxes before the teams can erupt on to the ice.

Shitty skates off to the box, bleeding, but smiling, waving at Jack, who watches on incredulous. Shitty is most definitely not a fighter, so what was that about?

“What were you thinking?” Jack asks, as they file into the locker room for the first intermission.

“I couldn’t let that asshole go unscathed after an insult to my best bro,” Shitty says, as the trainer hands him an ice pack to put over his eye in a probably vain attempt to reduce the swelling.

“That was reckless and dangerous! That guy probably has 30 pounds on you,” Jack sputters, grabbing Shitty by the shoulders. “Wait … I’m your best bro?”

“Aw, he does care! I knew this was the start of an epic bromance,” Shitty hollers, slinging his arm around Jack and tousling his hair.

Jack can feel himself blushing, but it feels different somehow. Not exactly out of embarrassment, but rather just a warm, gooey feeling inside. It’s strange and new, and Jack finds that while it is kind of uncomfortable, he also kind of likes it.

“You didn’t have to …” he mumbles, struggling to find the right words. “Just — thanks, Shits.”

“No problem Jackabelle. Got your back.”

And Jack realizes that for the first time in a long time, someone really does.

**Author's Note:**

> Come holler at me about Check, Please!, Schitt's Creek or anything else on [tumblr](https://leftwinglibrarian.tumblr.com/)


End file.
